Little Saint Elizabeth and Other Stories | Page 3

she was hardly seven years old
when it was considered proper that she should begin--the villagers did
not stand in awe of her. They began to adore her, almost to worship her,
as if she had, indeed, been a sacred child. The little ones delighted to
look at her, to draw near her sometimes and touch her soft white and
blue robe. And, when they did so, she always returned their looks with
such a tender, sympathetic smile, and spoke to them in so gentle a
voice, that they were in ecstasies. They used to talk her over, tell stories
about her when they were playing together afterwards.
"The little Mademoiselle," they said, "she is a child saint. I have heard
them say so. Sometimes there is a little light round her head. One day
her little white robe will begin to shine too, and her long sleeves will be
wings, and she will spread them and ascend through the blue sky to
Paradise. You will see if it is not so."
So, in this secluded world in the gray old _château_, with no
companion but her aunt, with no occupation but her studies and her
charities, with no thoughts but those of saints and religious exercises,
Elizabeth lived until she was eleven years old. Then a great grief befell
her. One morning, Mademoiselle de Rochemont did not leave her room
at the regular hour. As she never broke a rule she had made for herself
and her household, this occasioned great wonder. Her old maid servant
waited half an hour--went to her door, and took the liberty of listening

to hear if she was up and moving about her room. There was no sound.
Old Alice returned, looking quite agitated. "Would Mademoiselle
Elizabeth mind entering to see if all was well? Mademoiselle her aunt
might be in the chapel."
Elizabeth went. Her aunt was not in her room. Then she must be in the
chapel. The child entered the sacred little place. The morning sun was
streaming in through the stained-glass windows above the altar--a
broad ray of mingled brilliant colors slanted to the stone floor and
warmly touched a dark figure lying there. It was Aunt Clotilde, who
had sunk forward while kneeling at prayer and had died in the night.
That was what the doctors said when they were sent for. She had been
dead some hours--she had died of disease of the heart, and apparently
without any pain or knowledge of the change coming to her. Her face
was serene and beautiful, and the rigid look had melted away. Someone
said she looked like little Mademoiselle Elizabeth; and her old servant
Alice wept very much, and said, "Yes--yes--it was so when she was
young, before her unhappiness came. She had the same beautiful little
face, but she was more gay, more of the world. Yes, they were much
alike then."
Less than two months from that time Elizabeth was living in the home
of her Uncle Bertrand, in New York. He had come to Normandy for her
himself, and taken her back with him across the Atlantic. She was
richer than ever now, as a great deal of her Aunt Clotilde's money had
been left to her, and Uncle Bertrand was her guardian. He was a
handsome, elegant, clever man, who, having lived long in America and
being fond of American life, did not appear very much like a
Frenchman--at least he did not appear so to Elizabeth, who had only
seen the _curé_ and the doctor of the village. Secretly he was very
much embarrassed at the prospect of taking care of a little girl, but
family pride, and the fact that such a very little girl, who was also such
a very great heiress, must be taken care of sustained him. But when he
first saw Elizabeth he could not restrain an exclamation of
consternation.
[Illustration: It was Aunt Clotilde, who had sunk forward while
kneeling at prayer.]
She entered the room, when she was sent for, clad in a strange little
nun-like robe of black serge, made as like her-dead aunt's as possible.

At her small waist were the rosary and crucifix, and in her hand she
held a missal she had forgotten in her agitation to lay down--
"But, my dear child," exclaimed Uncle Bertrand, staring at her aghast.
He managed to recover himself very quickly, and was, in his way, very
kind to her; but the first thing he did was to send to Paris for a
fashionable maid and fashionable mourning.
"Because, as you will see," he remarked to Alice, "we cannot travel as
we are. It is a costume for a convent or the stage."
Before she took off her little conventual robe, Elizabeth went to the
village to visit all